The Newest Outrage

            Every time I look at my Facebook news feed, it’s like I’m gazing into a battlefield. On one side, we have people screaming—and I do mean that these people are doing everything in their power to be loud and be heard—about the inhumane treatment of children in family units coming to the American border to seek asylum and/or citizenship. On the other side, there are people saying, “Get over it.” It’s constant.

            I got a new phone and I am grateful for one thing about it: The Facebook app is not built in. I haven’t downloaded it, either, because it’s a large app and it takes up a lot of space. It takes a lot of time, too, as it’s a major distraction. I dislike working for free and I don’t like coming into a conversation and being the only level-headed person who uses real reason and logic to support the points I make.

            It’s important to me to make the distinction that most people in these arguments online have no idea what’s actually going on in the situation over which they’re crying for their perception of justice. I’m of the opinion that the Americas need an agreement similar to the European Union that allows citizens of these neighboring countries to enter and leave one another at will. In the European Union, a person can live in Germany while working in Belgium. I don’t see why someone close to the border shouldn’t be allowed to live in Mexico and work in America, or live in Canada and work in America, or vice versa for either place.

            At the same time, the enforcement of our laws is nothing new. It was the Clinton administration that put into place the policy that separates children from their families at the border, but now that Trump is in office and it’s somehow national news, everyone on the Left is in an uproar and a tizzy. Especially noted by those on the Left is the hypocrisy of the Right, wherein we marginalize and stereotype Latinxs and use them for cheap labor at the same time. We don’t want them in our country, but we take them and pay them under the table for jobs regular Americans don’t want.

            What happened to the uproar over gun laws? What happened to the rage over school lunches or the obesity epidemic? What happened to the rage over the anti-vax movement? Well, somehow, it’s all pretty well buried under the newest outrageous sensation: Border control. Now we’re focusing on the inhumane treatment of illegal immigrants and the putting of children into cages.

            Don’t get me wrong. People don’t belong in cages outside of the kink community. The Americas, in my opinion, should have a border agreement much like the European Union. But we don’t, and the policy that is on the chopping block now is not new.

            I’m tired of the smoke screens and distractions. I’m tired of being fed a line of shit, expected to get into a tizzy over it, and ostracized and belittled by those who are outraged when I remain calm. There are many more important things happening behind the scenes that nobody wants to look at. I’d rather go live with Tibetan monks.

My First 12-Hour Shift

I survived my first ever 12-hour shift, today. It started at 17:00 Sunday evening and ended at 05:00 Monday morning; this will be my permanent shift, regardless of which nights I work.

            Having never worked a 12-hour shift before, I could not have known how difficult the first 6 hours could or would be. I couldn’t have known that, until 23:00, I would be desperately fighting sleep and popping NoDoz—given quite generously to me by my field training officer—like they’re going out of style. NoDoz, by the way, does not increase one’s feeling of wakefulness, but instead keeps one from actually dozing off. It’s quite effective and, when coupled with an energy drink, can cause difficulty breathing, as I discovered by sipping some Nos energy drink (also provided to me by my field training officer) after having taken four NoDoz pills.

            Something about watching the day end is exhausting. Even walking around on a patrol of the parking garage seemed tedious and tiresome, as if I could somehow fall asleep while walking. Prior to 23:00, the halfway point of my shift, I felt worries pop into my head and create little nests in my brain.

            What if I can’t stay awake and I’m caught sleeping on the job and I get fired? This was my principal worry. My response was to tell myself that I would work my way through training and see how I felt about the job; if I felt that staying awake would be a very serious problem, I would work my way up whatever chain of command I have and communicate my difficulties so as to avoid being fired and, in the worst case scenario, resign. This was, of course, a premature thought process, though not irrational or unreasonable, as I have had difficulty staying awake before and even have dozed off during class.

            What if I can’t do walking patrols for 10 of the 12 hours I’m on shift and I get in trouble for sitting down too much? It occurred to me while in the first half of my shift that plantar fasciitis is on my VA disability claim and constant patrolling could cause back and foot pain for me. I worried about what I would do if it became a serious problem and the solution was simpler than my mind wanted me to believe. Simply put, there are two ways I could approach my possible physical limitations: I could simply explain my position and provide my disability compensation letter if required; or, I could communicate up my chain of command and, in the worst case scenario, either transfer to another account within my company or resign due to inability to properly perform my job duties.

            Indeed, I worried quite a bit in those first 6 hours over whether or not I would need to resign from my job, though I’ve so recently acquired it and am still only in training. It doesn’t help that I only have two nights in my two weeks of field training; the rest are day shifts, though my permanent schedule will be nights after I’ve finished.

            I wondered, too, what I could or would do for work if I were to resign from my current position as a security officer. Chief among my options was to speak to Victor at WorkSource again and go from there to find a better fit for my skills. Other options were to simply quit trying to have a regular job and get really into painting and drawing, or attempt to resume my tattoo apprenticeship (internship) with Lu.

            After 23:00, it began to dawn on me that I could make it through 12 hours of work without as much trouble as I worried about in the first half. I felt more alert and capable of the work I was doing. It occurred to me that the trick is to get through the first half; the second half might as well take care of itself.

            By 23:00, I had taken my first 15-minute break and was on my way to my first 30-minute “lunch” break. Randy had packed me homemade pizza and tacos for my two lunch breaks and while I ate the pizza prior to my first lunch break, the tacos were waiting to be devoured during that first 30 minutes of “lunch” time.

            Time goes by much more easily for me when I don’t feel like I’m fighting sleep. The transit center was lit well enough that I could read my book without turning on the office lights; the CCTV cameras provided minor entertainment; patrolling the parking garage proved to be a perfectly useful activity for staying awake and also for getting more oxygen.

            There were times when I felt that I had trouble breathing, but I realized that this trouble came from the high amount of caffeine I’d ingested, more than a respiratory issue within my body. What I learned from this revelation was that it is perfectly acceptable to take four NoDoz pills to maintain alertness while on shift, as well as perfectly acceptable to drink energy drinks in order to feel more awake; what was not acceptable was mixing the two as I had done. That was a mistake and unless I wanted to risk giving myself a heart attack, I would be better off choosing one or the other, rather than both, in the future.

            Now that my shift is over and I’m home, relaxing and winding down to go to bed, I realize that this is something I can do. I am capable of making it through 12 hours of work without falling asleep. I am capable of patrolling as necessary and if I have trouble as I start out, I can communicate my difficulty clearly and with evidence to support me.

            There are things I enjoy about my job and it is important for me to remember them. I enjoy wearing a uniform. It relieves me of the responsibility of choosing what to wear to work. I enjoy doing a job that requires vigilance; it is a test of my skills and abilities and this night, I proved that I am capable of maintaining it as needed. I imagine that I can only improve from this point on, as I am able to recognize my potential weaknesses and act accordingly.

            12 hours is a long time no matter how you look at it, but it’s only the first 6 hours that are truly challenging to me. As long as I can continue to power through them as I managed to do this night, I will be fine. It may be difficult, especially when I no longer have a second person to keep me company and converse, but it will not be impossible. There are plenty of things to do, including patrolling.

            I am a strong, powerful woman and I am capable of performing the duties of this job.

A Strong, Powerful Woman

It’s just after lunch and we’ve all returned to complete the day’s training. We’re watching videos for active shooter training and for some reason, I can’t get enough air—I’m nearly gasping. Trying to remain quiet and inconspicuous, I inhale deeply and exhale fully, doing everything in my power to control my breathing, but it’s no use; by the time the video ends, I’m noticed.

            “Are you okay, Aleashia?” Matt asked from the front desk.

            “Yeah, I’m okay.”

            “You sure?”

            “Yeah, I just can’t seem to get enough air. I’ll be fine,” I replied. Apparently, this was cause for concern, contrary to my own thoughts. Matt immediately put everyone on break and cleared the room after asking for someone who had been a medic—as it happens, a guy in my class named Ken was a medic in the Air Force, so he was the one called upon to talk to me about what was going on.

            I told them all that, yes, I’m on medication and it’s called Ziprasidone. I told them it’s a bipolar medication; I explained that this kind of thing was far from frequent and I didn’t understand why it was happening at that moment. Matt and Ryan made a point of ensuring I knew that if this was a problem, 12-hour shifts would be out of the question and they could move me to another account—not that they wanted to do so, but that it was an option. They insisted that I let them know if the problem persists, and of course I agreed. Hell, I’m not trying to deny a problem when one exists, I just wasn’t sure this was actually a problem—until they’d told me to remove my ballistics vest (prior to talking to Ken) and suddenly I managed to get oxygen enough to stop gasping.

            There’s a woman who works in one of the offices attached to the training room; her name is Kat and I’ve thought she was super cool from the first time I saw her, if only because she has a commanding presence and sports a pixie haircut. As it turns out, she’s just as cool as I imagined; I discovered this after she called me into her office to talk to her.

            “You’re on Trazodone?” she asked, incredulously, upon hearing the name of my medication.

            “No!” I responded emphatically, knowing all too well that Trazodone was not a medication I should be messing with. After all, Randy had been prescribed that particular medication, previously. Matt echoed the disbelief Kat expressed and I emphatically corrected them, “No, it’s Ziprasidone, a bipolar medication.” That was when Kat motioned me into her office.

            “Come on in!” she said, cheerfully. “Swing the door shut, let’s have cocktails.”

            “Yay!” I said joyfully, swinging the door closed as she’d requested and sitting in the chair opposite her desk.

            She began by telling me that she, too, has bipolar. “Hey!” I said, cheerfully. “Hey, crazy! How are ya?” she said, just as cheerfully. Grinning, I responded with, “I’m great! How are you?”

What followed was a conversation that was nothing short of wonderful and remarkable, to me. She told me that I am a strong, powerful woman and that she picked me out from day one as the strongest of the women in my training class and the most capable of doing well in transit security. As I’d seen her as someone to look up to from day one, it meant a lot to me to hear such things from her and I felt my chest fill with happiness at her words.

            Just before she could say her last piece to me, Matt called the break over and I had to return to my seat, to return to Kat prior to leaving in order to hear her out. I did so.

            “I want you, every hour, today and for the rest of your life, to smile,” she began. “If you’re in a place where it’s inappropriate, say it in your head, but if you’re in a place where you can speak freely, like alone in your car… say, ‘I am a strong and powerful woman.’ You’ll convince yourself.” I grinned, an ear-to-ear, shit-eating grin as she said this. “It has to be a real smile,” she added, “Not one of those fake—” and she demonstrated the forced smile of the depressed.

            I was so glad I’d heard her out for that moment and she even gave me a hug. It was a wonderful moment and every hour since being released, I have made a point to smile and say, “I am a strong, powerful woman.”

A Letter to A New Friend

I care about you deeply. You are important to me because you are a good person, underneath it all. Underneath the needless apologies and automatic defenses; behind the walls you’ve erected to protect yourself from the people around you, you have a heart of gold and all you really want to do is help people. I resonate with that.

            All I’ve ever wanted to do—short of being an artist—is help people. Part of the reason for me to get a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology is because I want to help people; what better degree to pursue for such an endeavor? Naturally, I want to help you. The thing is, I’m not even sure you realize you’re damaged; or, perhaps you do, but you don’t know how to accept constructive criticism from another person because all you’ve experienced have been negative people who have nothing nice to say.

            You’re not trying to be mean. I can accept that and appreciate it. What I think you don’t realize is how you sound to those around you even when you think you’re being “just fine”. Your voice is so sharp—as sharp as the nose on your face, as sharp as your very chin, so is your voice—and when something comes unbidden from your mouth in an environment you don’t prefer while you’re surrounded by generally undesirable people, your voice is sharp.

            Tone of voice means a lot in communication, my dear friend. The very sound of your voice when you say something—your inflections, as in, the way your voice rises and falls during speech—including the speed with which you talk and the words that come out of your mouth are all parts of the communication process. I don’t think very many people think of communication as a process; I think people think it consists only of what is said, rather than how.

            It is clear to me that you pay attention to what you say, friend. Many people do, when communicating. What I’m not sure you know is the meaning of your words. I’m not sure you know the true message you send with your body language, the words you actually say, and the tone of your voice.

            It’s different with me. When you’re with me, your tone is softer. But even when you’re with me, you’re so defensive of yourself, like you think your defenses must be up at all times and like you believe that the best defense is a good offense. God forbid you should ever offend anyone, though, so you preface many of the things you say—things that are hardly ever offensive by any nature—with “No offense.” None offense is taken and I feel like there is a larger underlying issue with you that perhaps you don’t recognize, where you feel the need to disclaim yourself before saying anything.

            Anything I say is met with, “No, I know, but—” something. Do you realize that you always say “No,” first? The first word out of your mouth when we are speaking is “No,” when I have something to say that isn’t a general nod, “mm-hmm,” or silence in listening. I might tell you that, while I understand your point of view, I think differently about the situation. The first word out of your mouth is, “No,” but I don’t think you even hear yourself say it. You hear yourself say the following “I know,” before you continue with your point and your endeavor to make me understand what you’re saying—which I do, dear friend. I do.

            I want to help you, friend. I want to help all of my friends, but I think the struggle for you is internal. Perhaps it is something only you can work on yourself and I am so glad that your goal for the year—if not beyond—is to help yourself. My hope for you, dear friend, is that you are also sincerely interested in personal growth. Perhaps there is something subconsciously that makes you speak the way you do or even act a certain way.

            I want you to remember that I love you. No matter how hard it gets for you, my love for you as a friend remains. Remember, too, that when everything is a joke, nothing is, and there is always truth in jest. I recognize your jokes as a method by which you wish to be understood and communicate your true thoughts to the outside world, but you’re so afraid of ridicule or backlash that it cannot be said in sincerity. Or, so you think.

            Where is your fear founded? What kind of terrible past have you endured to make you feel so insecure? Secure people speak sincerely and unapologetically, my friend, and you do not fit the bill except when you’re with me. Perhaps it is my sincerity that helps you to relax every so often and if that is the case, I want to move with it. I want to spend more time with you to help you feel sincerity and know it for yourself. I want to wrap you in security and make you realize that it’s okay to have your thoughts, your feelings, your opinions, and it’s okay to share them, but there is a time and a place for everything and there is always a good way to communicate a thought, even if there is no good way it can be received. Fear not, my friend, for I feel that most of what you could say would be received without judgment.

            I fear that your religion gets in the way. Perhaps it is what keeps you going and helps you see the light in life. Who am I to judge your feelings? Better that you tell them to me, in due time, as you will. Just remember, my friend: I love you.